Blue Knight
by ElenaBolton21
Summary: Who is Acheron's father? Where has he been all this time? What key does he possess to the war with the Daimon's? Whose side is he on?
1. prologue

**Disclaimer: I do not have any affiliation with Sherrilyn Kenyon or her smoking hot male characters that need gigantic hugs, but there is a mystery behind our lovely Acheron, and his biological paternity. This fanfiction is my speculation. Yes, the main character is Charonte—I haven't named him yet, but I have no affiliation with any of the characters, places, and other things in this story belonging to Sherrilyn Kenyon and Torfantasy. **

**However I think the Charonte I have as Acheron's father could be counted as mine? Yeah? Anyway, enjoy the prologue. Let me know what you think. **

**Blue Knight**

_By ElenaBolton20_

_October 31__st__, 1942_

The air is cool and the wind whips through his black hair; tied back in a leather cord and braided down the middle of his back where he has dimples above the swirling blue ass that is hidden by black wool pants. His white shirt is sweaty down the front and his suspenders hang behind him as a cigarette hangs off his lips as he stands in the shadows of a Charlottesville mercantile. Late night patrons wander the streets and children rush through it with parents carrying buckets of sweet treats. He smiles, blowing out smoke as he imagines his own son being so young.

Spending time with him, and teaching him to wield his powers; damn Apollymi for keeping him from his own son, making every member in the pantheon think that Apostolos is the son of the god Archon. Bitch.

She and Artemis have more similarities than they both know, and it won't be long till they both end up dead. Growling softly, he wraps his lips around the cigarette again, inhaling some smoke before he let it's all out through his nose. He loves the inventions of human kind. They are creative and yet are so incredibly dense about the hazards, but still, they are incredible creatures.

Eh, they would say the same thing about him.

Looking around, he trashes the cigarette on the ground and stomps on it. Walking out into the street in with his wings tucked away and his shoulders hunched. He loves this time of year, it's where he doesn't have to always hide in the shadows—especially since he hates his human form.

It's not attractive by any means, not matter how many women throw themselves at him. Rolling his eyes, he walks along the side of the road as he slides his red eyes from side to side. His black lips flat in a grim line on his blue face, his black fingernails tapping at the air as he walks.

Apollymi won't tell him where his son, that's okay. She claimed him to the son of the stupid, bastard god who locked her in Kalosis—a place he once thought to be home, but now that the bitch and her so-called army has taken residence there, there is no peace for him. Not there would be peace there because it's the hell realm, but for him it was a place of tranquility and focus.

Now it just has reminders of why he hates everyone.

"Mama!" Yells a young boy across the street, he had fallen and spilled his treats on the road, but he's forgotten about those as he hugs his knee to his chest. The boy's mother picks him up, cradling him to her bosom as he cries into her shoulder. Where is his father? Did she lie about her son's father too? Did she lie and say he is the son of someone else?

Everyone is fickle and out for themselves—even those who claim to protect the ones they "love". Ha, love, what a stupid emotion that shouldn't exist. Blinding people to its beauty and charms with promises of a better tomorrow, but that is all absolute horseshit.

Complete and utter horseshit.

All love is is just a blindfold that people tie around someone's eyes so they can fuck them over repeatedly and with supreme relish.

That doesn't make it any better when he's watching the little boy being hugged and embraced by his mother to make the physical pain of a scraped knee go away. How he wishes he could've held his son like so. _Damn you, Apollymi! _

She's only known hurt and anger when something happens to her or her son, well, she is about to get an awakening when she tastes his fury and he feels her blood on his fingers with her black heart in his palm. He lost years with his son, and he continues to lose them every moment he can't find him.

This war with Daimons and Dark-Hunters is not the only war that will be the cause of Armageddon. It's his anger.

His fury.

His wrath.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, however, Xilan and Glen are mine and any future OC's lol enjoy the story!**

_November 14__th__, 1955_

"Look at that," says Glen Harsdale, his chubby waist and his hairy arms resemble an orangutan and his large owl-eyed glasses make his eyes seem bigger than what they are—which are beady and rat-like, especially when he glares at someone he dislikes. Or perpetually can't stand. He runs a bulgy hand through his thin brown hair and looks Xilan up and down. The man –well, Charonte demon in human skin—stands at least six to seven feet tall with broad shoulders and eyes that are hidden by glasses the Air Force wears. "Lanny, I haven't seen you in a while."

More like months to a couple years, but who's counting? _Apparently, Glen is. _Smiling cordially, Xilan steps close and shakes his …aquaintances hand. Glen laughs, "Still not fond of anything people?"

"You know me well."

"Yeah, well," Glen pulls a Cuban out of his pocket, putting the stogie between his hefty lips and lighting it with the matches he keeps in his pocket. Xilan only glares at him. "Oh don't scold me, Lanny, not when I've been doing it for so long."

Xilan shakes his head, running his hand through his thick black hair that is wavy and stops to the top of his spine; it would be longer, had he not decided to pull his hair back by his leather cord this morning. Besides, he has more to worry about than his hair and outer appearance. "I need …" what's the human term that they use when one needs help from another? He's heard it before…. "Assistance."

Glen puffs out a cloud of white, peppermint smelling smoke. Looking at Xilan as a mother with her two children walk by. One is about ten and five—no, that isn't right, what do people call that age now? Xilan misses the ancient days so, they were so simple and yet challenging.

Humbling at times because almost everybody had the same thing as the other. There was no _keeping up with the Jones's. _

"What is it, old boy?" Glen asks, a hint of a Brooklyn accent forming around his words. Xilan watches as the smallest child with the mother dawdles, no older or bigger than at least four years, the child teeters on her feet as she tries to walk along the curb just outside the Bistro. The mother bites her inner cheek in frustration, snapping her fingers to hurry the child along. _Bitch, _Xilan thinks, clenching his hands into tight fists. Glen clears his throat, a hefty sound that makes it sound like he's choking on smoke from his stogie. "Lanny." He says, getting the demon's attention back to him, "my assistance with what?"

Xilan's eyes flash to the young child again, he can't help but picture his son in his head. How helpless he was a child, how he must have wondered where he came from. How different he must have been. Then he imagines Apollymi, the treacherous bitch, and fire swims through his veins as his eyes turn red behind his sunglasses. He fights to keep his skin looking normal. "I need help finding my son."

His eyes bulging from his face, seeming bigger than they appear behind his glasses. The stogie falls from his mouth, burning the crotch of his jeans, Glen jumps from his seat; patting his crotch violently with his hands to kill the smoke and the stogie falls to the ground and rolls off to the side.

It's nearly comical.

"I didn't even know you had a son," Glen says, inspecting his jeans before sitting down on the edge of his chair. "When was he born?"

_A long time ago, before you were even a thought. _Xilan leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest—he learned long ago how to "blend" with this "crowd"…no matter how strange the people speaks.

He remembers the night well when Apollymi had requested his company when Archon had left so late, she had spewed some tears and clung to his arm with such sadness that his heart tugged and he felt a human emotion called pity. So he went with her to her chambers, shutting the door as per her orders and then talking with her until she grew tired. Or so he thought, he hadn't noticed when she had used her powers to summon some wine, but she had and offered him a sip.

Then another sip. Then another and another…until he was fool drunk on the sweet tangy liquid.

"_You must be cold," Apollymi purred then, her lips curling into a chesire smile and her eyes gleaming as they swirled that beautiful shade of silver. Xilan feels the warmth of the wine spread through his veins, he was leaning into the pillows that his Goddess had summoned on the bed. Hmm…soft and comfort. He could fall to sleep here and be content. She put a hand on his thigh, next to his manhood as it starts to grow. "Would you like more…comforts?"_

_Comforts? There's more than just this to be had? He opens his red eyes from the slits he had them, looking at his Goddess lustfully, his red retna's gleaming as he traces his fingers along the folds of her dress. "What comfort's…" he slurred, grabbing a bunch of fabric in his hand to pull her down, "would you say to give to me?"_

_Her smile grows to a grin, grabbing his tunic and pulling him to her as she captures his lips hotly with her own. Crawling on his thighs and pinning him to the bed. _

_He runs his fingers through her hair, feeling the silk strands and the downy softness against his palms. Hmm…yes, this is sweet bliss. This must be what the gods have with the humans…the pleasure and the bliss…_

"Lanny?" Xilan jumps at Glen's voice, shaking him from the memory of Apollymi that conflicts with his hatred of her. Of course, in that memory, they two of them had been fool drunk on wine and had bedded each other. When he had learned of her pregnancy, he had went to her again, but she was with Archon telling him of her great news…

How she saw that it was the son Archon had wanted and would be proud to hold in his arms. "Lanny?" He's never felt so much hate toward anyone until that day.

"_It is great news, Archon, this babe will unite us more than we already are. He will be our son." _To make things worse, Apollymi had ignored him for such a time that he decided to leave Kolasis to live in secret amongst humans. He wondered of his son, of the woman who betrayed him so greatly he doesn't even wish to see her live. Imagine his relief when she was locked into the Atlantean hell realm.

Imagine his grief when he first heard of his son's death….

"Lanny?"

"What?"

"When was your son born?"

"That fact doesn't matter, the question is…will you help me?"

"Of course I will, y'know that." Xilan nods, standing from the table and looking around at the small children jumping rope on the sidewalks and the older children talking and laughing amongst themselves. Glen coughs, standing from the table as well to clap a hand on Xilan's shoulder. "I need some details about your son, Lanny, if I'm to find him—"

"I don't want you to find him, I just want you to tell me if he is happy."


	3. Chapter 2

**Hey! Sorry for the silence! I just had some writer's block. I apologize for the errors in this chapter. My keyboard sticks. **

** I decided that this will be a** _short _**story.**

_November 16__th__, 1955_

Xilan walks the streets of Brooklyn, his hands in his pockets, his blue flesh faded to the pale white of human skin. His eyes that are normally red, are disguised as a clear green—greyish green, like the untamed sea when he sailed aboard that ship so long ago when he went to Babylon. Part of his search for Apostolos, to know his son, but he had no luck. Apostolos was not in Babylon. Nor was he in Rome.

Even in the middle ages, he's searching France and England and then during the civil war he's searched the continent. No trace. No sign.

Almost like Apollymi had lied about their child in the first place, only one clue had tipped Xilan off about the existence of his son, and that was the surge of power that came from a strong power. A power that is combined between that of a goddess and …a Charonte demon.

Like he and Apollymi. Like Apostolos.

The surge had been like thunder pounding against a clear night sky; sending a flood of warmth and cold eerily through the Xilan's blood. That's how he knows his son is out there somewhere; that surge. He'll find him, he'll know him. Protect him. Be the father that he should've been—not like that god, Archon, who had sent every Atlantean god out to kill him as a small infant.

Thunder claps in the sky, making the clouds gleam soft blue behind the hideous grey. Not needing to squint, he sees the shoddy building with the chipping bricks, door that's half off its hinges—barking dogs that know no discipline as they shout for freedom that never comes. Glen lives here, it's not so shocking, the man has a poor job and the job he does have only requires meetings in places like such. Sighing, Xilan walks up the stoop stairway, moving the door with his powers only barely as he walks in and looks up to where the stairs stop at the twentieth floor.

Closing his eyes, he makes himself appear in front of Glen's door. He knows twice. Thrice. "Glen!" He yells, not caring of the time, "Glendale! Open the door this moment!" His accent being twisted by the Atlantean accent he hasn't used in centuries.

The door creaks open, a tired looking Glen appears through the crack with only a chain to keep it at a proper space. "What the hell do you want at this hour?"

"You left in a hurry yesterday," Xilan begins, shoving the door lightly; in all honesty, he can shove it off its hinges, but he doesn't want to scare Glen. Or possibly kill him.

"Left?" The heavy set man mumbles, his mouth stretching open as he yawns big. Suddenly his eyes alight and he scratches his double chin. "Oh yeah, when you's told me to find information on your son-"

"Will you do it?"

"You just want to know if he's happy." Xilan nods. "That's it? Nothing more? Not getting to know him? Not worming your way into his life because he's loaded—"

"Glen!" Xilan growls, his eyes threatening to turn back to their normal color, his skin barely turning blue out of frustration. He fists his hands as he pushes down the urge to yell louder, "can we…speak inside?"

Glen sighs, shutting the door. The sound of the chain being released makes Xilan perk his ears, then the door opens again, wider this time. Xilan steps inside and looks around at the small, shabby apartment. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls; stains of some unknown substance makes Xilan's toes curl in disgust. The floor is littered with crumpled paper and …something Xilan cares not to know.

"Great place," the Charonte says, looking back at the chubby man who is rubbing his chins again. His eyes beady and rat like even more without his glasses on. "Love what you've done with it—"

"Shut up," he snaps, wobbling to the kitchen where two stools stand; one wobbly like his large robust hindend, and the other firm and strong. He sits on the wobbly one. _How long before he actually breaks it? _Xilan wonders idly. Leaning on the counter, Glen pulls a stogie from the pocket of his tacky flannel robe. Holding the stick between his fingers before lighting. "Now what exactly—"

"I just want to know if he's happy." Xilan repeats again

Glen shakes his head, huffing on the stogie and blowing out a roll of grey smoke. Xilan coughs barely. "You are strange, you want to find your son but not be in his life?"

No. "I just—"

"Make up your mind, bloke."

Xilan shakes his head, running a hand through his fingers, "I just want to find my son, can you help me or not?"

Glen sighs, pulling the stogie from his lips as he ponders his friend's debacle. "I have a niece, about your age….pretty, fair, blazing red hair…hot temper—"

"Don't fix me up."

"I'm not, geez!"

"Sounds like you are," don't kill him. He's a friend. A friend. A….very annoying person who is too lazy to do a task. In the times when Xilan was a boy, he'd be scolded by the officials for not doing his duty to the people if they had come to him with a similar request. The image of Glen being drawn and quartered flashes through his mind, then a stifling sensation of guilt.

Damn him for empathy with humans…he's been with them too long.

"Here," Glen says through the stogie, grabbing a pen and a crinkled paper from the floor; surprisingly it's dry and not covered in questionable filth like the apartment. "It's my niece's address and name, she lives in Queens."

Xilan looks at the paper, a tiny little square that barely fits in his palm, on it is Glen's scrawl. "Kiyaya?"

Glen shrugs, "her mom married an injun—"

"—indian."

"Whatever, the point is, not like her."

The feeling of choking the older man comes back, but Xilan stuffs it down; looking back down at the paper again, "Wulffrich?"

"It has a meaning," Glen says, "but I forget what."

Nodding, Xilan puts the paper in the pocket of his jeans. Hopefully she'll be more of a help than her uncle, he won't count on it; but it's worth a try.

Anything to find his son.


End file.
